Hold Me
by Alien ABC's
Summary: The life of L Lawliet, in eight hugs.
1. The Fireman

_So I've finally finished something longer than a oneshot! This fic is eight parts, and I'll post one every day. And I promise I'll try to write something happy soon! (Perhaps after I finish the Halloween-themed fic I have in mind… XDD)_

* * *

The bell has been ringing all afternoon.

Apparently, kids in this part of town think that ringing the doorbell on the fire station and running makes an extremely funny Halloween prank, and the Fireman has been up and down most of the evening answering the door on the off-chance that one of the callers is genuine.

Now, however, it's approaching midnight, and he's beginning to wish that he didn't have an obligation to respond to every peal of the bell. He's tired, and every time he opens the door more cold air rushes into the already chilly building, and—

The bell rings again.

Sighing, he gets to his feet and shuffles over to the door. He really is getting too old for this. Why can't teenagers just do something responsible with their time, like handing out candy to trick-or-treaters, or working at the Haunted Forest in the park? Does playing petty pranks on a weary public servant really afford them that much entertainment?

He opens the door, and the frigid wind immediately slaps him in the face. It's a proper Halloween night out - dark, gusty, and wild, the moon yellow and waxing towards full; the kind of weather which makes October thirty-first feel like more than just a date on a calendar, makes it feel like a night on which ghosts really might roam through the chilly autumn air. Nobody should be out on a night like this.

Of course, as expected, nobody is - and he is just about to close the door when he looks down and sees the bundle of blankets on the doorstep. It's small and silent, but it's moving faintly and regularly (_breathing_) as the wind dances with the edges of the thin white cloth and sends leaves scurrying past it.

Kneeling down, he lifts the blanket tentatively and sees - eyes. Huge, curious gray eyes, set in a tiny face framed by wild, fluffy black hair.

The Fireman looks both ways down the street, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever left the tiny bundle, but there's nobody in sight. Glancing down at the baby again, he sees that it has one of its hands partway into its mouth, drool coating its fingers, and is still staring up at him with those wide, mysterious gray eyes. There is nothing with it except the dirty white blanket in which it's wrapped, plain except for - he notices as he reaches down - the letter L in one corner. Hesitantly, he gathers the small bundle, lifting it to his chest, and retreats back into the warmth of the station.

_The Fireman holds him at the beginning._


	2. The Nurse

She's just finished getting most of her charges into bed and is making a last check of the playroom when she sees a light. Knowing who it is already, she crosses the room, stops in front of the child curled up in the corner, and folds her arms.

"L, it's time for bed."

The small boy looks up from his book with wide gray eyes. The Nurse doesn't even have to check to know what he's reading - one of the books donated to the institution the year before was an old, worn copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, and the quiet black-haired boy has essentially claimed it. He takes it everywhere with him; she can't even guess how many times he's read it - or what it is about the eccentric detective that captivates him so.

When he arrived at the home, it was without a name and with nothing but the L blanket he was wrapped in when he was found on the doorstep of a fire station. As such, the employees referred to him at first as the L baby, supposing that he'd eventually be given a different name, but the letter stuck - now the child is known by it.

"I can't sleep," he reports calmly. "Doctors recommend reading if you can't sleep, because it's quiet and calming." She has no idea whether that's true or whether he's just making it up, but it doesn't really matter.

"Why can't you sleep? You know it's bedtime; you should be tired."

"I think I'm ill."

She considers him. He does appear to be rather pale - not that he isn't always - but maybe a bit more so than usual, and there are faint spots of an angry pink in his cheeks. Amidst his wild nest of inky hair, his eyes look unnaturally large, and his lips are almost white.

"Maybe you are sick," she admits. "Here, let me feel your forehead." Kneeling down, she pushes some of the child's dark hair back as he obediently tilts his face up slightly. He was right - he is very warm. Sighing, she scoops him up with one arm and uses her free hand to collect his book.

"You have a fever," she tells him as she starts down the hallway towards the room he sleeps in, "which means rest is the best thing for you. Come on; a bit of sleep and you'll feel right as rain."

He isn't so sure about that. He thinks the best remedy would be someone looking after him, some cake, and maybe having one of Sherlock Holmes's adventures read aloud to him. But he knows she doesn't have time for that; she has a lot to do and many other children to look after. He can tell that her mind is on something else even now.

_The Nurse holds him carelessly._


	3. Quillish Wammy

"_We don't know what to do with him. Nobody else will take him."_

The woman's words echo uncomfortably in his mind as he watches the small black-haired boy eat. _L_ - they didn't even give him a proper name; no wonder they weren't able to find him a home. Their neglect has socially crippled him.

He would have taken the child into his custody under any circumstances, made sure he was placed somewhere where he would be better cared for, but something about the boy - his intelligence, perhaps, the uncanny maturity and acuity in those wide gray eyes - made Mr. Wammy particularly curious about him. He wanted to look after this dark-haired sprite himself, to make sure he grew up in an environment that would nurture his intellect rather than crushing it. And it was obvious that he desperately needed someone to care for him, someone to care _about_ him. So Mr. Wammy decided to raise the mysterious child as his own charge.

"_You don't have any other name?"_ he asked in the car.

"_No, just L."_

"_No family name?"_

"_No; I have no family."_ It was true - all he had was a battered old book of Sherlock Holmes stories that he kept clutched to his chest with his knees drawn up to guard it.

"I have the rest of those in my library, you know," Mr. Wammy tells him, nodding to the book that is now sitting on the table. The child's eyes widen almost comically, and he even pauses in eating the cake his new caretaker found for him.

"May I read them? I've always wanted to."

The elderly man laughs gently. "Of course, L. You never have to ask to read my books; I want you to be able to study anything you're interested in. All right?" He pats the little shoulder nearest him, and its owner looks up from his strange crouched position on the chair as though he is seeing an angel.

"Thank you," he says simply, rising to stand on the chair and pushing himself up on his toes to give his guardian a clumsy hug. And it is obvious his happiness is valued, obvious _he_ is valued, when the embrace is returned.

_Quillish Wammy holds him carefully._


	4. Nate River

_This chapter's a little different (though it follows the same general pattern), and it's set probably a good decade or so after the last one. And just so there's no confusion, the character described at the beginning is not L. ;)  
_

* * *

From the moment he was born, people were waiting for him to die.

He was small - far, far too small - and so premature that he had to be kept in an incubator for weeks and weeks. He wasn't expected to survive, so his parents didn't want to get attached to him. They named him, though, so they would have something to put on the tiny headstone.

When he did survive, everyone was shocked. However, it wasn't time to celebrate. He was still too small, still too weak, still too breakable. His blood was too thin; his bones were too brittle; his immune system was too feeble. He was in the hospital again and again. No matter how many sharp corners of furniture were covered over with padding, he still had accidents. His parents began dressing him in white so that they could tell when he was bleeding. He didn't need normal clothing, because he wasn't allowed outside. The neighbors' children thought he was a ghost. And still, his parents waited for him to die with a kind of resignation he didn't understand.

He had no friends to speak of, so he invented them. He named his stuffed animals; he named his toys; and when those weren't enough, he invented imaginary friends. When nobody could hear him, he talked to them. He didn't talk to anybody else, and seldom did anybody talk to him. When he was in the room, they spoke in hushed whispers, as if at a funeral. And still, his parents waited for him to die.

Instead of him, though, it was them. The house burned down while he was spending the night at the hospital, and he mourned quietly for his lost friends all the way to the orphanage.

Now he is curled up silently in the corner of a room, looking at the floor. People tried to talk to him when he arrived, but he didn't want to talk. He wanted his friends back. He wanted to be a normal little boy who ate normal food and didn't take medicine and played outside. He wanted a chance to live without people constantly waiting for him to die.

The door opens, but he doesn't look up. He doesn't want to talk to anybody. He doesn't want to be told how lucky he is to be here and how special he is because he's so smart. He doesn't want to be special.

Footsteps cross the room and pause as their owner kneels down beside him, and then, after a moment, a hand settles on his shoulder. He looks up into a pale face with wide gray eyes, and its owner smiles tentatively before extending both arms invitingly. Hesitantly, he lifts his own, and the stranger pulls him close and hugs him tightly - not as though he is about to die, not as though he is in danger of breaking, but as though he is something precious and beloved.

For once, it isn't someone else afraid to touch him - it's the other way around, because this is too bewildering and too wonderful and too perfect and this stranger is too special, and hopefully he's never going to let go of the small white-haired boy in his arms.

_Nate River holds him timidly._


	5. Mihael Keehl

_CRASH._

"GET OUT."

"I'm sorry," the dark-haired man tells him quietly, "but I cannot leave you alone."

_CRASH._ This time it's the lamp.

"I SAID GET _OUT!_"

"No. I'm sorry."

"EYAAAAH!" The small blond boy screams in frustration and viciously topples a chair.

"It's going to be all right," his companion says quietly.

"_No it isn't!_" the boy shouts. "I want to go home! Why can't I go back home to Dad?"

"I think we both know the answer to that question." His visitor stoops and gently brushes aside a lock of blond hair to reveal a mottled purple bruise. It isn't the only one - he's seen the results of the medical checkup, and he knows what is hidden under that long-sleeved black shirt.

The boy slaps his hand away.

"Go AWAY! I'm _FINE!_"

"It's all right," he is told quietly. "I promise, it's going to be all right."

"_NO!_" Furiously, he lashes out with a fist and catches the stranger on the arm, but the man's only response is to set a hand gently on either of the small shoulders before him.

"Go _away,_ go _away_, leave me _alone_—" He's practically chanting it now, his voice unsteady, pummeling the chest before him with his fists. Still the man makes no move to stop him, and he grows more hysterical, screaming and shouting and hitting.

"_NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO_—" And suddenly there are arms around him, and he is sobbing into the stranger's thin chest so violently that he chokes on his breaths, clinging to the soft white shirt with desperate fingers and hysterical strength, emptying his heart. He sobs until he runs out of breath and begins gasping, and still, he doesn't let go. He won't. He can't.

L smiles and begins stroking the child's hair, gently and rhythmically. His ribs will recover.

_Mihael Keehl holds him fiercely._


	6. Misa Amane

"_And of course, Misa would _never_ betray one of her friends!"_

At the time, she meant the words. Now, every time she thinks about them, she wants to throw up. She didn't _realize_ at the time, she was missing her memories, only half of her was awake to make the promise - but she knows she's just making excuses; they sound hollow inside her head and still her stomach churns with sick guilt.

She didn't think of it immediately - first too shocked by the sudden appearance of the shinigami, then too overwhelmed by the idea that Light was Kira and she was Kira and they were Kira together and all of her dreams were going to come true, then distracted by the interview and the new knowledge about Higuchi - but once in the car on the way back to the headquarters building, she thinks _Ryuzaki, I have to help Light kill Ryuzaki_ - and then, with a horrible jolt, she remembers her empty (but she didn't _mean_ it to be) promise of not too long ago.

The car arrives at its desitination far too quickly, and then she's getting out and going inside and praying that she'll be able to face Ryuzaki without showing him everything. She has a terrifying feeling that he'll take one look at her and know, know that her pledge of friendship has been broken, know that she's spoken to the shinigami, know that he can't trust her and that she's his enemy now.

So when he welcomes them back and congratulates her, peering into her face to see how she's feeling as he always does when he greets people, she flushes, refuses to meet his eyes, and throws her arms around his neck in a tight hug, too ashamed (and afraid) to let him see her face.

He makes a startled noise and tenses, taken by surprise and clearly unsure what to do in this situation, but she doesn't let go. After a moment, he relaxes a little and wraps his arms loosely around her in return, then hesitantly pats her back as if to let her know that Yes, he's acknowledging the embrace, and Yes, he's hugging her back, and Can she please let go now?

She doesn't, though. She knows it's making him uncomfortable, and she can feel the situation becoming more awkward every moment, but she doesn't _want_ to let go. She has the strange sensation that she's hugging her friend, Ryuzaki, the one she promised never to betray, and that if she lets him go, it will mean she's giving up him and his friendship - which she knows is inevitable if she's going to kill him, but she doesn't _want_ to, and if only she could keep hugging him forever and never have to face the ugly reality—

_Misa Amane holds him too long._


	7. Light Yagami

_Apologies for yesterday… I think for some reason, the site didn't send out an alert for the chapter I posted. Hopefully it'll work today… Also, you're welcome to interpret this chapter as slash if you want, but it was written just as friendship, so you don't have to read anything more into it unless you want to. :)  
_

* * *

They're about to go back inside when he hesitates.

"Still listening to the bells?" his companion prompts, and he nods distractedly, because it really doesn't matter all that much. The wind howls and cold rain lashes his face, painful and unpleasant but so real and alive that he seems like a dream by contrast, and as the drops run down his face he feels like he's crying.

"But you said you could hear them from inside the building, too," the brown-haired boy interrupts. "Why did you need to come out here?"

Raindrop tears; it's like he's in a movie but he doesn't think he's brave or handsome enough to be the hero. There's no role for him, or if there is perhaps it's that of the villain - because his enemy would make a fine hero, with his grace and his charisma and his honey-hazel eyes and charming smile. Though given what hides beneath them, perhaps they'd both be villains.

"I wanted to see the sky," he murmurs, "one last time."

The awkward silence that follows makes the time he and the boy's father had to watch him reading porn magazines seem comfortable by comparison.

"What are you talking about?" Finally, the words break the silence, bewildered and more than a bit angry. As though the speaker doesn't want to understand.

"You heard me quite clearly, I believe."

"Yes, but—" An exasperated hand through wet brown hair. "You mean the last time before shutting yourself up to work on the case for days? A break after Higuchi, before we have to get back to work again?"

L smiles softly and a little sadly. "If you wish." Because he knows - he knows that he's going to die soon, and he finds it funny in a bitter sort of way that this boy is perfectly willing to kill but unsettled by the idea that his victim is resigned to dying.

"I - don't worry so much, Ryuzaki. Everything will be all right." The words are too gentle, too hesitant, too genuine for the monster he knows, and so are the arms that go clumsily around his shoulders, embarrassment making them stiff. Gratefully, he leans into the embrace, savoring a last moment with his only friend. The rain is cold, their bodies are warm, and the future is dark. He knows very well that going back inside will mean entering his tomb with his executioner by his side, and he's not sure he's brave enough to do it, and he wants time to stop right here because he doesn't want to go any farther - but too soon the arms are letting him go and the hour has come.

_Light Yagami doesn't hold him long enough._


	8. Kira

_Last chapter… I apologize if anyone hasn't gotten alerts/hasn't gotten replies to their reviews - the site hasn't been sending me emails for a couple days now and I'm getting things mixed up. XDD Thank you so much for reading! :)  
_

* * *

L's face is beautiful in its last moments of life.

Of course, it's always had its own unique kind of prettiness - but as it whitens with pain, as the lips tremble with unspoken accusations, as the eyes cloud with fear and betrayal and despair and so much wonderful _emotion_, the effect is exquisite. Stunning. Breathtaking.

Of course, he hoped it wouldn't come to this - hoped, quietly but powerfully, that he'd be able to win the world's greatest detective over to his side and spare his life. But a part of him always knew that there _was_ no hope of that, that of course it would come to this. And it has.

Killing L feels daring, destructive, and heartbreaking - like smashing stained glass or taking a match to the Mona Lisa. Because that brilliant, elegant, ingenious mind really is like a work of art, and its destruction is necessary but still such a terrible waste. And compared to the quicksilver intellect dying behind darkening eyes, he's beginning to think that _La Gioconda_ would actually be far less of a loss.

The light is fading from those eyes now, the life almost gone, and he smiles, because what else he can do? The murderer in him smirks, because it's so satisfying to see the horror as he looks down like the Grim Reaper; and the artist in him smiles, because that face is so incredibly lovely with the stain of Death spreading over it; and the child in him beams, because their games are over and L's lost and he's _won._ So he smiles and holds the weak, limp form a little tighter in his arms, and L shivers faintly as his eyes slip closed.

The Fireman found him. The Nurse raised him. Quillish Wammy cared for him. Nate River needed him. Mihael Keehl loved him. Misa Amane pitied him. Light Yagami was his friend. But they're all gone now, and he's alone, save for his murderer cradling him with impossibly gentle bloodstained hands, like something precious and fragile that regrettably must be destroyed - but that _he_ is going to destroy with _his own_ hands and that _nobody_ else will touch because it is _his_ and even though L must die, it's going to be done gently, and with respect, and with arms that aren't going to let him go.

_Kira holds him at the end._


End file.
